Page 50 of Freak
This was one of theoddest days in Mel’s memory. From the moment his eyes had opened, a surprise had been lurking around just about every corner. Most of them had been of the ‘oh fuck’ genre, but this one right here made up for all the previous bullshit.
Abigail was ready? He’d come up here thinking he’d have a fight on his hands trying to keep hold of her and instead she was inviting him to her bed? When he’d stepped out of her truck on the club parking lot, he had not been thinking the day would end like this.
He wanted to keep her in his arms, carry her to her bedroom, but she squirmed and pushed against his chest, wanting her feet back on the floor. He relented and grinned when she immediately took his hand and yanked him to the screen door.
She was so fucking gorgeous. Earlier in the day, dressed up for the clubhouse, she’d sparkled. From her hair to her shoes, she’d been fancier than he could remember seeing her. But there had been something closed in her, almost brittle, even before their disagreement. Now, back at home where she was comfortable and secure, with her hair up in its usual puff, a big apron over her dress, and her goofy Crocs on her feet, Mel thought she was even lovelier. Her beauty went deep, all the way through; it was more than hair or skin or shape that made her beautiful—those things were just the shimmery wrapping. Abigail herself, who she was, was the most beautiful thing about her, and here at home no anxieties or hesitations obscured that glow.
And she was triply beautiful now, leading him to her bed. So goddamn perfect he was about to explode out of his skin.
When the cats coiling around her ankles caused her to pause in the kitchen, Mel tugged her back to him, clamped her against him, and kissed the snot out of her again.
Of all the shocks and starts he’d experienced on this day, this was the most surprising thing: how readily and completely Abigail had leapt into this new place with him. Understandably, she’d wanted to go slow, and they’d been going about as slow as Mel could stand, barely advancing at all this whole month. Necking and petting like fifteen-year-olds canoodling in the basement while parents were home. But today, after that mess at the clubhouse, mess that had splattered all over this wonderful new thing between them, he’d needed them both to remember what they had. Before one more goddamn word got spoken. So he’d kissed the snot out of her and shut her up.
She’d thrown her arms around him and kissed him right back. In all their pubescent making out, never had they kissed with the passion and intent that had fired their kiss on the porch, and was searing this one now.
Their mouths clashed wildly, tongues surging and receding, twisting and tangling, teeth grazing, nipping. Mel grunted and growled with each move she made, she moaned and arched with each move he made. He had both fists tangled in her hair, and her fingers were so knotted in his he felt strands popping free.
He’d thought Abigail Freeman beautiful as long as he’d known her. He’d thought her sexy as long as they’d been friends, and truly wanted her almost as long as that. But not once had Mel considered that she might be a firecracker in bed.
Before today, his fantasies of her had imagined something slow and sweet and careful—beautiful for it and sexy as hell, but calm. It had been twenty years since she’d been with anyone;of coursehis mind couldn’t conjure an image of Abigail as sexually uninhibited.
It sure could now.
Reluctantly, he broke the seal of their mouths and gasped, “We don’t get to a bed right now, I’m putting you on the counter and we’re fucking in the kitchen.”
Humor sharpened her focus, and she laughed, her fire-tinted cheeks lifting high.
“Well, I got work to do on that counter, so let’s get a move on.” She grabbed his hand again, leading him to the stairs.
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For all the time Melhad spent in this house in the past couple months, he’d never put a foot on one of these stairs. He’d been all through the first floor and made himself quite comfortable there, but the second floor might as well have been in another dimension. As they started upward, he had the powerful sense of being granted access to something secret.
The staircase was exactly what you’d expect from a farmhouse this old, in this part of the country: narrow, the wood of the banister lightened and polished by thousands of hands skimming up or down, the wood of the steps darkened by thousands of footfalls, and showing the geometrical lighter shading where a runner once lay. Each step squeaked or creaked in its own way and at its own volume. Nobody was sneaking upstairs in this house.
The wall along the staircase and on up to the second-floor hallway had been papered ages ago, likely well before Abigail had been in anybody’s plans. On a background either aged from white or meant to be beige sat faded red scenes of women in fancy dresses and miles-high hair and men in long coats, buckle shoes and George Washington wigs. Each scene seemed different from the others, some showing interior rooms and others picnics or farmland or the exterior of a large house. Mel almost missed a step as he realized that Abigail’s wallpaper was telling some kind of a story.
When he bobbled the step, she paused and looked back at him. “Y’okay?” she asked, a touch of worry pulling on her brow.
He grinned. “Just trippin’ over myself tryin’ to get you naked.”
The way she blushed and giggled at that was a gift just for him.
The hallway was dim and short. Four dark wood panel doors, three of them closed, lined the story-papered walls. Between the doors were framed photographs showing generations of Abigail’s family, each subject staring grimly forward. Though she was alone up here, the Freeman family had staked this land, and her lineage was long and deep. In that way, no one anywhere was truly alone.
She led him to the open door and paused at the threshold. Her head dipped in sudden shyness. Mel stepped up behind her and drew her against him. Just beyond the door lay her bedroom, and he inhaled deeply, taking in all the scents of the woman and her most private space.
“Second thoughts?” he asked softly when she seemed content to stand outside the door.
“No, not really,” she answered at once, snugging her head under his chin. “Just ... feeling it, I s’pose.”
“Feeling it?” He kissed the top of her head.
She nodded against his lips. “It feels important.”
